


Koi

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 23:43:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3227933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kíli’s lured into the Elf king’s clutches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Koi

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Ficlet for anon’s “Kili likes to be pet. To have fingers run through his hair. To have his cheek caressed. His chest stroked. Any form of physical contact.” request on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=25244277#t25244277).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Kíli knows exactly why this invitation’s come. He might be young—for a dwarf, anyway—but he’s no fool. Thranduil, who Kíli hardly wants to acknowledge as a king, has no interest in him. Kíli’s confident, yes, but Thranduil is the height of Elven beauty; he could have anyone he chose. He could have Kíli by force, if he wished it. The only reason he’s giving any choice is because he wants to _hurt_ Thorin Oakenshield, and Kíli is an easy pawn. 

It still isn’t easy, somehow, to snarl, “Not on your life,” at Thranduil’s offer. Thranduil’s lips twist into an easy grin all the same, all wry amusement and no offense. Maybe Kíli’s venom isn’t fierce enough, or maybe Thranduil likes a challenge, or maybe he can see the doubt in Kíli’s eyes. Most of all, Kíli hopes it isn’t that. He’s loyal to his uncle, to his true king. He’s prepared to rot here in these cells for the rest of his life, if he must. But he won’t leave alone. And Thranduil’s offer is just for him, not for his freedom but luxury, a life of comfort and pleasures as the Elf king’s personal courtesan.

Kíli is no concubine for anyone, let alone an elf, and he sinks back against the jagged walls of his cell, bitterly repeating, “I said no, Elf. Leave me be.”

“I heard no conviction in your words,” Thranduil drawls, and to make matters worse, his voice is a silken honey that twists itself so delightfully through Thranduil’s ears. He can only imagine what it must sound like hoarse, strained in the throes of passion, or whispered mutely in the dark. Under such an offer, Kíli can’t keep his mind from fiery dreams. He tries to shake them off, but he can’t seem to look away from the handsome man before him, tall and lithe and beardless and nothing Kíli thought he would ever want. 

Thranduil drifts closer across the tiny space. It isn’t threatening but beckoning: an open invitation. The door is locked behind him, and Kíli has no illusions about escape; this king is powerful and full of seeping magic he can’t even fathom. There are likely guards outside, and already the spells are weaved around them—he can’t hear the frantic calling of the other dwarves anymore. Perhaps Thranduil has truly given them privacy, not that it helps. Another step and there’s nowhere to move. Thranduil is nearly flush against Kíli, his warm body radiating bliss itself. He smells of luscious wines and sweet promises. He lifts his pale hand to cup Kíli’s cheek, and Kíli _knows_ he should jerk away but doesn’t. 

Thranduil’s palm is so _soft_ against the stubble of his chin. Kíli’s never felt anything more luxurious, just like he’s never seen anyone more handsome. He feels a traitor for thinking it, but it’s true. Every inhale steeples his betrayal; Thranduil’s presence is intoxicating. He says again, shaky, “I will not share your bed.”

“You could stay in my harem, if you wished,” Thranduil purrs, and it is a _purr_ , a hushed, erotic rumble that makes Kíli’s body stir between his legs. “You would have your own pillows and blankets and all the extravagance you could ever want. I would drape you in jewelry finer than your wildest dreams. A crown of pure gold would be yours to bear whenever you pleasured your king, the gemstones in which would make your heart weep for joy. And you would feel such pleasure in return...”

Kíli’s mouth falls open, and he means to protest, but instead, he just gasps. Thranduil’s long fingers drift back into his hair, combing through the dark strands, and Kíli makes a sharp keening noise, drenched in shame. Thranduil pets him like a royal jewel, and all he can do is lean into the touch, because _oh_ , it does feel so very _good_...

“That’s it,” Thranduil soothes, and it sounds like Elvish, maybe a song, but Kíli understands. Both hands are on him now, stroking back through his hair, and it’s his weakness: he can’t resist. Four fingers knot skillfully at the nape of his neck, tugging his head back, firm but not too painful. He doesn’t mind it a little rough. His face tilts back, neck arched, as the thumb pets his throat and the other hand runs along his jaw, knuckles tingling through the coarse growth. He’s furious, in a way, that he should be manipulated so, but he can’t seem to break away. He’s weak. 

Slowly, Thranduil’s fisted fingers make their way down Kíli’s long hair, untwisting as they glide through the thinning strands, until it ends down the hump of his shoulder. Thranduil’s hand continues, drifting instead to his collarbone, and those sinful fingertips dip inside his collar, meeting bare skin. Kíli shivers and wants to hiss, _stop_ , but instead, he only moans. 

He’s vaguely aware that Thranduil is chuckling. He doesn’t do anything about it. His arms stay tense at his sides, his body arching up, chest eagerly rising into Thranduil’s touch. Thranduil slips inside the harsh fabric and rubs across his breast, hard and lingering. All of Kíli’s skin is heating, turning pink-red in the stifling cell. 

Thranduil’s head dips over Kíli’s shoulder, straight, light, silken hair tumbling to mix with Kíli’s dark waves, and his lips brush over the shell of Kíli’s ear. The hair in the way is slowly tucked back, revealing the full curve for Thranduil to tease with his breath, tongue poking out just enough to graze the tip. Kíli shudders and gasps, leaning back to offer more flesh. He feels like the wanton, desperate thing Thranduil thinks of him, but he can’t stop himself, not with those talented fingers rubbing down his chest, stroking across his pecks, blunt nails occasionally raking over his pebbling nipples. The other hand alternatively pets his hair and strokes his cheek, while Thranduil’s tongue dances down the back of his ear, Thranduil’s body pressing into his. A long, trim thigh worms its way between his legs, grinding horribly against his cock, so impossibly hard. He hasn’t been touched like this for a long, long time, and never so skillfully. He tries to think of Thorin, of his duty to the company, of his loyalty to the reign of dwarves, but the harder he tries to be good, the more Thranduil’s caresses make him long to be _bad_. Thranduil nips affectionately at his ear and hisses, “You should be _mine_ , little dwarf. You would be treasured and touched day and night, milked to your full capacity.” His voice deepens, so _alluring_ that it may as well be a spell, as he practically growls, “You _belong_ in my harem as my willing concubine, made to kneel at my feet and sit before my throne and lie in my bed... you will tell me _everything_ and give me all that you are, and you will _love me_ for it...”

Kíli moans, “ _Yes_.” He doesn’t mean to, but it spills from his lips and he can’t take it back. He’s being driven to the brink, swallowed in ecstasy as he’s stroked and rubbed and licked and nipped, and he wants to be _kissed_ ; he turns his face to Thranduil’s and parts his lips, tilting up in a silent plea. 

But Thranduil breaks away from him. All the glorious contact slithers back, withdrawing across the cell. Thranduil drifts on, one hand extended, and the bars open silently behind him. He stands outside, _desire_ carved into his handsome, ravenous face. 

And Kíli, trembling with want, stumbles forward. Entranced, he slips his smaller fingers into Thranduil’s hold. He’s drawn out of his cell and into sin, promised the world.


End file.
